


Amon Lanc

by Kryptaria



Category: The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Barely betaed, F/M, May not be lore compliant, Written in 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of the subtle yet deadly politics in the Greenwood, between the Silvan and Sindarin elves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amon Lanc

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2007, when our World of Warcraft guild moved briefly to Lord of the Rings online. 
> 
> _There may be lore errors!_ I've read and reread Lord of the Rings, _The Hobbit_ , and _The Silmarillion_ , but I don't pretend to be an expert at any stretch.

Amon Lanc, where King Oropher’s court resided, was barely visible as a silhouette washed in blood. It was just the fires of sunset, but the sight, like an omen, made me pause. I stopped, breath sounding harsh in my ears, warm only where blood flowed from too many wounds. My right shoulder burned at the heavy, unclean touch of the makeshift rope that I clutched to my chest. It trailed back to the noxious burden that lay behind me, oozing ichor into the once-clean soil of the Greenwood.

I stood for a time, feeling my heart beat strong despite the blood I’d lost. My lungs burned; at first, it seemed one of the wounds had pierced my armor more deeply than I’d thought. Then I realized it was the vapor rising from the battle-trophy behind me, dizzying and corrupt.

Keep walking and I risked death from blood loss or from wounds aggravated by motion.

Stand still and court certain death from the poison that crept, unseen, through my nose and mouth.

I would not stand still for my own death.

I walked. I dragged my burden behind me, hands stuck fast to the rope, except where slick blood made me cramp my fingers to grab tight. It lurched in counterpoint to my feet.

Step—lurch—drag. Step—lurch—drag. Every step was a brace, an indrawn breath. Every lurch forward was an exhaled grunt, graceless and crude. But it all brought me closer to Amon Lanc.

I bled. But for so long as I bled, I lived.

The others had died.

 

* * * * *

 

It was a festival night, a time for the court to revel in the shadow of Amon Lanc, bringing music and light to the twilight forest. The revelers were closer than the city itself, as if they’d placed themselves in my path solely for the inconvenience of making me go around.

The King was there, with his court of gentle ladies and scholars, nobles once graced by the light of the Two Trees, who had walked the paths of the farthest West. With them, they would have the few Silvan folk they deemed to be comfortable in such surroundings. To walk in uninvited was unthinkable; to do so reeking of blood and battle, with what I dragged over my footsteps...

Another might have chosen to go around, and possibly to die. Another might have approached in deferential stealth, as if the thing I dragged behind me could somehow go unnoticed as it passed by the revelers.

I chose to follow the path straight, towards the lamps suspending from high branches where the music was sweet, the laughter a bright counterpoint.

So I walked, right past the guards who fell back from their half-voiced challenges. More than one coughed and retched, reeling away from the stinking corpse I dragged. Like the ripples on a pond, a murmur ran through the edge of the revelers. Some fled; others gathered to watch in horrified fascination.

I thought to go right to the King, to present him with the trophy—that proof, dearly bought with the lives of my brothers in arms, that shadow had come to the Greenwood. I didn’t even make it past the nearest group of musicians who stared down from their stage, silenced in horror.

I remember seeing without recognizing—an elf-maid, gowned in deep rose, resting one hand on the arm of her father or guardian; two guards, their armor ceremonial and weapons light enough to snap if raised even in mild irritation, much less in anger; a servant, hands empty, shattered tray of wine goblets glittering in the grass at his feet.

There I fell to my knees, looking at the shattered glass, numb hands still stuck fast to the rope. The revelers got a clear sight—and whiff—of that which I dragged, carcass bloated and leaking ichor through rents in its thick hide. The few legs that remained were curled up like a clawing hand, bristling with unclean hair and blood. It was long dead but still its mandibles seemed to work, as if shadows made them clench and unclench in the flickering lamplight.

I thought I should do something, at least say something, give some explanation of what had happened and where my brothers-in-arms had fallen. Apparently, my body had other ideas. I drew a breath to speak, only to realize that I’d inhaled a full gasp of the spider’s fumes, hanging low to the ground. The grass nearby had already started to smoke and curl, blackening like a scar.

I had just enough time to curse myself for an idiot before the darkness took me.

 

* * * * *

 

Few Men came to the Greenwood, and all either came by invitation or were encouraged to leave, beneath flights of our arrows or at the points of our swords. Of those few, barely a handful had been welcomed to our cities and not met in glades or at riverbanks. But of that handful, every one of them had marveled at the construction of our city.

We had always lived as one with the forest, building sometimes in the branches, sometimes in caverns. The Sindar, when they came, brought with them more advanced building techniques, but always built in a way that pleased all of us. The Men, by contrast, lived in homes of mud and brick and stone, graceless and ugly, somehow aggressive—a declaration, to my eyes, of their place in the world.

But universally, I had learned that soldiers‟ barracks all looked the same. Only the trappings were different, from the gilding and painted frescoes on the barracks of the King’s Guard to the half-finished thatch huts where the guards at Lake-town lived.

I awoke to something in between—the familiar sight of the barracks at Amon Lanc, ceiling stained with soot that no soldier had time to clean, air tinged with the reek of metal and polish, sweat and the forest breeze coming through windows left open in all but the direst weather.

And the smell of oil, pressed from flowers I couldn’t immediately identify.

I turned, feeling the edges of pain flow through my body at even that slight motion. That made me remember. _The spiders_.

 _My brothers_.

Not brothers by blood, but brothers in arms all the same, kin by blood shared and spilled in defense of our lands. They were lost—gone, if you believed the Sindar, to the farthest West, to reside in the halls of Mandos for a time, and then to be reborn.

But still, they were gone, slaughtered... how long ago?

I opened my eyes and only then saw my visitor, his noble’s robes looking as out of place as a songbird amidst the grey lake-gulls. Courtesy demanded that I rise to greet him.

A noble. Safe with the King, in a city that I had bled to protect. Made safe by the sacrificed lives of my brothers.

I stayed in bed.

After a long enough silence that I was debating going back to sleep, he spoke: “Your captain tells me you are Calaneth.”

A thousand answers went through my head, not one of them appropriate for someone of his standing. I gritted my teeth—about the only part of me that _didn’t_ hurt—and nodded. “I am.”

He seemed momentarily put off, falling into an awkward silence once more. Finally, he broke again, saying, “And that—that _thing_ you brought...”

Thing. The spider.

Now I recognized him. I’d passed out almost at his feet.

“I hope it was no inconvenience to you and your daughter.”

Sarcasm was apparently lost on him. He just nodded once, as if to acknowledge that I‟d spoken. “The King has doubled patrols to the south. He—I volunteered to sit at your side, until you awoke.” And then, as if it would be somehow helpful to clear things up for my limited understanding, he added, “You were poisoned by the spider. Gravely ill.”

“And I thought it was the blood loss that nearly killed me.”

 _That_ he caught, but he had the grace to wince and look away. “Your valor will not go unremembered. Calaneth, you are named, yet Spider-breaker I name you.”

I looked at him, wondering if I was supposed to be honored. Did he have no idea that my brothers had _died_ in that poisonous nest? That the spiders were _within_ the bounds of the Greenwood?

After only a moment’s pause, he looked back at me and went on. “My vineyards are to the south. It was close to my lands where you slaughtered this foul beast. Had you not, then surely my family would have paid the price instead.” He inclined his head gravely, then gestured to the side, towards the head of my bed. There was a shield there, newly-polished bronze, embossed with the stylized shape of a spider. “A gift, Spider-breaker, the first of many that I would offer, to clear my debt to you.”

I had to twist to see the shield clearly. Half-healed wounds pulled and twinged in warning against greater exertion.

A spider.

My brothers.

 _Restore them to life,_ I thought, though I knew it was unfair. Every one of us knew what we risked in service to our people and our homeland. Every one of us had already decided the safety of what we treasured was worth the price we could be called on to pay. But some part of me saw this noble, privileged and held in safety, with his ornate gown and beautiful daughter at the King’s festival...

 _“They lead; we bleed,”_ a guard of Lake-town had once said, speaking of the leaders of those fierce, independent communities of Men, little fortresses of civilization in the wilds. We had always been close with them, seeing them as a race worthy of our protection and friendship, but for the first time, I felt more kinship with that guard—that Man—than with the noble Elf who sat beside my bed.

“Of all the treasures I have, none is more precious than my Letheniel,” he said. Baffled, I looked back at him, feeling dizzy just from that change of focus and the slight movement of my head. The poison still lingered in my body, making me weak. He gave no sign that he noticed; his head was bowed again, in acknowledgment, even in respect. “And into no hands would I deliver her, save those that would keep her safe. I give her to you, Spider-breaker, with joy. At last, I have found one worthy of my treasure—my daughter.”

 

* * * * *

 

She was always hungry. She _was_ hunger, given terrible shape, terrible thirst. Terrible hunger.

The Shadow had elevated her, giving her purpose, giving her hunt meaning. But that was trivial. What did the Shadow know of hunger? „Meaning‟ crumbled like the withered husk of an empty meal, when faced with it. And one day, even the Shadow would be consumed by her hunger, until there was nothing but _her_ , sated at last.

Exertion was also terrible, in its own way. It was for Food to scurry about on the dirt or to take wing. It was for her to wait, to take her food as an offering, to plan and plot and weave, and then to reap her rewards.

She scurried, though, as if she were Food, moving limb after limb after limb after limb, the dark forest a shifting panorama of movement—leaves, branches, wind, sky. Her claws slipped silently from dirt to branch and back in a spiraling path that claimed earth, tree, and sky as her domain. As it should be.

But the earth was sticky with blood fallen from Prey and Mate alike. And as she scurried—as she _exerted_ —she learned that something could be more terrible than hunger.

 

* * * * *

 

No force in the void knew patience as well as the brood of Ungoliant. It was for Food to scurry about on the dirt or to take wing, its panicked flight drawing it to where the brood waited to feed. It was for her children to wait.

She waited.

The hot-blooded, thick-limbed Elves with their half-blind eyes slipped under her, awakening her hunger to a new, agonizing throb. Her claws ached to pierce their flesh. Venom dripped from her mandibles but she caught it on her own limbs to keep her hiding spot secure.

The Elves, she knew, would hear the pained cry of this tree, so close to their calcified, ungraceful city.

She waited, drawing the Shadow about herself, slowly coaxing the tree’s branches close and thick beneath her. The wind in the high, swaying branches brought her scents and tastes. She drew the branches over herself as well, weaving a cocoon to shade herself from the fire in the sky. And when it rained, she huddled down and dreamed, remembering the memories of her mother and her mother’s mother and so on, back to Ungoliant herself, who was the First and whose brood would be the Last.

She waited, hunger gnawing through her, until it began to drive away the lust for vengeance. There were Elves in countless number here; she knew they would miss even one, though, so she waited, sating the merest edge on the Food that came to her closed den, seeking shelter or nesting. Their tiny bones, she wove into her web, leaving no trace to fall to the forest floor far below.

 _The Elves must not know,_ she told herself. Not until her Prey was hers, returned to the web-span of her brood. They had slain her mates and her young. Six ruined bodies had fed her what strength remained in their dead limbs and her young had lapped up the leavings from the forest floor or pits of their cold flesh. That strength had sustained her trek here, to this Elf place, where she would claim the Prey alive.

He had slain her mate. Slain her young. Cut their webs and burned them.

 _He_ would sustain her brood, cocooned and alive, until they ate their way free of him.

That thought, more than anything, sustained her now. She waited.

 

* * * * *

 

It seemed a timeless age later, when the hunger had all but consumed her, when the wind changed, bringing with it the scent of her Prey. She stirred—she _exerted_ —to break free of her lethargy, scattering the bones of her little Food in her unseemly haste. She sliced the cocoon open and slipped out, limbs curled around the tree that pulsed with noisome, loathsome, untouchable life. Only two trees had provided for one of her kind, the Mother of All, who had consumed the light of the Two Trees and slaked her thirst upon their dew.

She slipped from the cocoon and the tree and arced from branch to branch overhead, now one step before her Prey, now one behind, now right overhead. His blood was close to the skin, piercing it in some places; his gait was halting. The metal carapace that had turned aside claw and mandible was gone; only soft flesh remained, spun „round with heavy and graceless clothing.

Branches barely rustled with the weight of her passing. Great in her wrath, patient in her lust, her limbs spanned from tree to tree, carrying her. She had spun no traps, for her Prey had no trail and followed no wind. But she spun the trap in her mind, her multitude of eyes focused solely on her Prey, her thoughts cast ahead.

 _The running water_. Yes. It weaved through the trees like the earth’s own web, a silken strand of danger to her Prey. There, his steps would be forced to one point.

She loathed exertion and hunger. She was of the brood of Ungoliant, meant to wait, to trap, to feed. But, when there was no other choice, she could move and move quickly.

More swiftly than thought itself, she made for the place where her Prey would experience her sting.

 

* * * * *

 

We walked in silence.

No. Not quite.

 _I_ walked in silence, feeling the Shadow to the south like an icy wind on my face and chest. I set my feet in absolute silence, more in these soft boots than I was accustomed to, in my armor. This stronger silence was little comfort; I’d trade stealth for my armor in a breath, had I the strength to carry its weight.

Not that stealth mattered. My companion—my unwanted, awkward companion—walked

at my side with steps that were lithe and graceful but brushed leaf and branch, snapped twig and stem, and though she could pass mere feet from a Man and never stir him to look up, to my ears, she sounded... loud.

I looked at her sidelong and had to suppress a shudder. She wore opalescent white, shimmering in hues of palest blue and pink, touched with a silver so bright that it was nearly as white as the stars overhead. Her gown hugged her body, leaving shoulders bare under a fall of feather-light wisps of night-black hair that was studded with pins, silver each capped with a glittering opal.

Very nice. For a party. In the forest, she stood out like a beacon.

I tugged restlessly at my own tunic and the skin between my shoulder blades crawled. I felt too exposed, too vulnerable, without my armor. And having her at my side, like walking bait for any passing predator, did nothing to help.

My shoulder ached, holding one arm up in a formal posture, my hand offered to support hers. My free hand clenched around the hilt of the sword I wore despite her disapproving, pretty—always pretty—frown.

If I’d asked, she would’ve said that the heavy swordbelt ruined the line of my tunic, or that the sword hung gracelessly at my hip, ready to draw. So, I didn’t bother asking.

We walked in what came close to silence, she with the grace of a dancer, I with the grace of a warrior. Subtle differences that glared like noonday’s light when placed side-by-side.

It should have felt companionable; in a way, I suppose it did, for I was able to put her mostly out of my mind. I thought instead of the south, where my brothers had died, where death had invaded the Greenwood. The Shadow was rising. I could feel it.

She spoke and I nearly motioned her to silence, before remembering her rank. I looked at her, hesitating long enough to frame my words a little more courteously—or at least a little less rudely. “I missed that. What did you say?”

Her lips pursed enough that someone more courtly would have felt the sting of her silent reprimand. “I noted that your wounds are healing well.”

As if there were a reason they shouldn’t? There were more Silvans than Sindarins among the border guards, but the King knew our value well enough. “I’ve always recovered well, with the help of our healers.”

Evidently that was the wrong thing to say. She just sniffed and turned aside, looking out at the forest in a bored, vaguely disapproving fashion.

I bit back my sigh and kept walking, wondering how I’d let myself get talked into this situation in the first place.

 

* * * * *

 

The bridge was fairly new, built twenty or thirty years ago by Elves and Men, to celebrate our alliance. It was a slender span, built in the Elven style, but made from slate-grey stone quarried by the Men and brought up the River on rafts. Eight trees were planted at either side in pairs, each pair twined together in further symbology. They were meant to stand together for centuries.

The ones on this side, to the north, did. But on the other side, I could not see the silhouettes of paired trees that should have been there.

I moved swiftly away from Letheniel, quiet enough that she didn’t even seem to notice.

My shoulder twinged painfully when I drew my sword, worrying me. I knew I wouldn’t have full range of motion. I started thinking ahead, not terribly concerned—the trees could have fallen victim to a natural storm, after all—but wary all the same.

Then I moved, running lightly but steadily to the bridge. My feet brushed leaf and branch; the sole slipped like a whisper over the stones. Letheniel turned—

But I was already vaulting over the side of the bridge, behind the nearest pair of entwined trees.

I wore no armor, but I’d chosen clothes that were twilight-dark, with a hooded grey half-cloak thrown back over my shoulders. Now I pulled it closed, drawing the hood up over my silver hair, letting it hang low to shadow my face. I found the darkness between the trees and slipped into its concealing folds.

“Spider-breaker?” she called, her voice light but touched with concern. She was the privileged daughter of nobility, her blood once graced by the light of the Two Trees. But she proved that blood had not thinned and weakened with privilege

She did not scream at finding herself alone in the darkness. She did not run. She carried no weapon—it would have ruined the line of her dress or some such nonsense—but she stepped forward all the same, finally moving with caution and silence. Her gown brushed softly against her legs.

I watched, pressed into the trees, head turned to the left, towards the bridge. The railing was low, just enough to keep a traveler from stumbling off in the mist or darkness. I could see her clearly, moonlight illuminating her opalescent gown.

She set foot on the bridge.

 

* * * * *

 

The Children of Ungoliant were everywhere. They were eternal, infinite in patience and appetite. They did not fail in the hunt, for all things would fall to them, in time.

And it was with that infinite patience that she clung to the arching surface, claws finding purchase in the tiniest imperfections, supporting her bulk effortlessly. The calcified strand of stone spanned the running water. It was a web, a place for silent hunting, but one that she stole from the Men and Elves rather than constructing for herself.

It amused her.

The water, though, flowed fast and wild, spraying mist onto her as she clung beneath the span. The breezes, though small, were sharp like knives.

It confused her. Muddled her senses. She could smell her Prey and feel the vibration of foot on stone. But something was not right.

No. It _was_ her Prey—it had to be.

She was of Ungoliant’s Brood.

She was Hunger. Hunter. Eternal.

She gathered herself and leaped, limbs akimbo to grasp her prey. Her spinnerets burned and silk whipped forward. Hot blood and juicy flesh filled her senses. Her Hunger consumed her.

She leaped, claws quivering with her need, and felt soft, warm flesh fold beneath her weight.

 

* * * * *

 

A whisper of sound. A brush, one thing against another, barely heard over the burbling, swift-flowing stream and the breeze that touched the leaves.

I moved, taking a step from the shadows, setting one hand to the low rail of the bridge.

My muscles clenched. I gathered myself, ready to leap, before the Shadow reached out to touch me.

A thin line of noxious vapor. A stench that choked and burned.

I saw them in my memory, torn apart, armor shredded like autumn-dry leaves. I heard their screams.

Arusathri. My brother.

My lungs burned; my blood turned to ice. I felt my sword, its weight suddenly grown, pulling at my hand. Half-healed wounds ached anew. I gasped and the vapor filled my throat, burning my eyes, leeching the strength from my body.

 

* * * * *

 

 _We ran, the last two survivors, but there was no shame in this flight. This was no rout; it_ _was a retreat and a necessary one. The King had to be warned._

 _Six lay dead behind us. Arusathri and I were the last. He was_ — _he had been_ — _fleet-footed_ _and sharp-eyed, our hunter, our tracker. Now, he stumbled, struggling against the weight of the_ _spider we dragged in our wake. Ungraceful and uncoordinated, our steps brought us stumbling_ _against one another as we ran, each holding the same rope made from sticky, tingling, stinging_ _web._

 _Our reeking burden belched out clouds of poison and taint as it bumped and rolled_ _against tree roots. We bit back our coughs and shook our heads to clear our eyes, but we could_ _not stop. We could not falter. The spiders that had destroyed us so thoroughly were not common_ _forest spiders; these were of a different, far more deadly breed._

_I could not feel the warmth of his blood against my shoulder and hip, but I could smell it._

_And if I could, I knew other things would as well._

_I could smell that, too. A darkness, a shadow, a corruption so powerful that it made even_ _our burden seem pure and natural._

_We were being hunted._

 

* * * * *

 

I knew fear but it was not a part of me.

It was outside. I felt it, battering against me like a moth trapped outside a window.

I turned and huddled close to the earth beneath the bridge, breathing deep, taking in the scent of damp earth and clean water, of stone quarried by the hands of our allies, of growing things and the clean, natural things that crawled in the earth and swam in the river.

The fear ebbed.

Time’s passage returned.

I heard a scream and _moved_ , rage burning away the fear that came with the stench atop the bridge. I leaped over, my left hand braced on the railing, taking my weight with ease despite my wounds. My right hand still held my sword, strong and sure now. I was wounded, still healing, but I could not fight while weakened.

So, I couldn’t be weak.

I recognized Letheniel only because of her bright, opalescent gown, flashes of light under a darkness so black that it seemed to engulf the light of the stars and moon above, with tangible force. The gown was a dim, grey shroud of death, seen under that haze, beneath the bulk of a creature that, impossibly, I recognized.

It twisted, its head—if it could be said to properly have a “head”—and body and thorax all undulating, rippling under the darkness. Jagged-edged legs, splayed out from its bloated form, caged Letheniel, piercing into the bridge.

Venom dripped from mandibles, sizzling onto the stone bridge, pockmarking its surface.

It spoke.

_“Prey.”_

 

* * * * *

_Arusathri and I ran but his strength was faltering. His hands were fixed to the web by its_ _sticky coating, not by their strength. His breath rasped and his footfalls were uneven. I was in_ _little better condition, but I lent him what strength I could._

_I should have known it would make no difference._

_He stopped and tore his hands free from the web, gasping. Behind us, our burden stilled_ _and rolled, settling under its own weight. Fumes rose up and overhead, the leaves of ancient_ _trees curled and withered._

 _“Calaneth_ — _”_

 _“Don’t,” I growled in warning, letting go of the web with some effort. My hands burned_ _from its touch; I ignored the pain and grabbed at the straps over his leather armor._

 _“You must go. Take it. Warn them,” he forced out, before nearly doubling over in a fit of_ _coughing. Blood splattered on my hands and chest._

 _“No!” I released the last buckle and his pack_ — _bedroll, quiver, bow, and gear_ — _fell to_ _the forest floor. Freed of its burden, he should have risen to his full height. Instead, he stumbled_ _back, grabbing at my arms for support._

 _I held him, steadied him. Behind him_ — _in front of me now, for I’d turned_ — _I could see_ _only unnatural darkness. Shadow rising from the carcass we’d taken as grim proof of the threat?_

_Or something else?_

_“Arusathri. Listen to me.” When his face came up, eyes meeting mine, I said intently,_

_“I’m not leaving you. Our brothers are dead. We’re all that’s left. You can’t die!”_

_“Calaneth_ —”

_This time, I did not interrupt his protest; he did, with a sudden gasp._

_He stiffened_ —

 _Then he was gone, jerked from my grasp so suddenly that I stumbled and dropped to one_ _knee beside his fallen pack. Shadow took him._

 

* * * * *

 

“She’s mine.”

I said it, but I had no idea why. I stepped forward, placing my feet carefully, shifting my weight. I raised the sword, struggling to see through the fumes that surrounded Letheniel and the beast.

Limbs moved, clicking on the bridge like knives on bone.

It spoke. _It spoke,_ and I could understand. _“Prey.”_ Its mandibles clicked, spraying venom droplets that sizzled in the air. It turned, the bulk of its body looming above the glittering eyes.

Eight eyes.

Over one eye, though, the fibrous, spiky hairs were sheared off. Ichor that leaked through flesh glistened in the moonlight.

Against all sanity, I felt my lips curve up in a smile. Arusathri’s voice seemed to whisper in my ear, from the Halls of Mandos. My brothers stood at my back, silent in their demand for vengeance.

“I missed once,” I said, soft as a whisper.

The beast hissed; a stinging wind brushed my face as the thing raised up on spiky limbs.

Before, it had been the embodiment of terror, of hunger, of the hunt—and I had been its prey.

Now it was just angry.

As was I.

“Give me your name,” I demanded, this time in a strong, clear shout. “Tell me who I’m about to kill.”

It hissed again and spat, gathering itself, its body pressing down onto Letheniel. It froze there for a moment, coiled and ready.

 _“Ghatslub, broodmother, scion of Ungoliant_ — _hunter of Elf-prey!”_

 

* * * * *

 

_“Arusathri!”_

_I screamed but he was gone in a moment of silence that filled, an instant later, with his_ _own creams._

 _I didn’t think. He was far, too far for me to defend with sword. I snatched up his bow,_ _threw the quiver over my back. Grabbed an arrow as carefully as I could, trying not to destroy_ _the fletching in my haste._

_“Arusathri!”_

_He screamed again, high and maddened like a pain-stricken animal. The sound very_ _nearly made me freeze_ — _what had broken his resolve, his strength, so quickly?_

 _I could not risk a shot, though. I ran forward, jumping over the fallen spider that had_ _been our trophy, our proof of the threat that had crept into the Greenwood, setting the arrow to_ _string. Desperately I looked into the shadows but saw nothing_ —

_Up!_

_Something_ — _a whisper of sound, the dying echo of Arusathri’s screams, something made_ _me look up, into the trees._

_Flash of white. Spiky black, jagged and rending._

_A spider... But a spider like no other. It made our trophy look like a half-tame housecat_ _beside a mountain lion._

 _It was above, clinging to branch and trunk and Arusathri. He hung from one claw,_ _impaled through the twin bones of his forearm, his weight hooked over the claw by his grasping,_ _clutching hand. Blood flowed but sluggishly; his body jerked wildly, not in struggle for freedom_ _but a far more grim dance of death. White foam gleamed dull grey through the vapor that_ _surrounded him, flowing down from the spider, engulfing him even as the web it spun engulfed_ _his legs, moving up._

 _Agony filled Arusathri’s future. I had been stung before_ — _we all had, in our battles_ _against the wild spiders. We all had suffered the toxins, the agony of slow healing, the cutting_ _away of dead flesh to expose healthy to air and ointment. The Elven healers of the Greenwood_ _knew well how to cure the toxins..._

_If the dose were small enough. If the spider were juvenile or perhaps adult._

_But the oldest spiders, the biggest, those with the most potent venom nearly always_ _brought death with their sting._

 _And this... this spider dwarfed them all. It seemed to fill the very sky over me, as if it had_ _engulfed the whole of the tree that withered away from its touch, bark peeling, leaves sizzling_ _and dropping off in an oily black rain of death._

 _Too engrossed in preparing its prey, it had not noticed me. I had time for one shot,_ _perhaps two, before it would see me and attack. I could see the faintest gleam of its eyes; a shot_ _through one might be fatal, though with a spider this size, there was small hope of that._

_There was no hope. There was only mercy._

_“Arusathri, brother,” I whispered, drawing back the arrow. The motion made a rush of_ _fresh blood seep through my armor, but I felt no pain. “Varda hold you and light your way. Be at_ _peace.”_

_I fired._

 

* * * * *

 

Ghastslub leaped and I lunged and we hit a few steps away from where Letheniel lay unmoving. I felt the edge of my sword bite flesh as I staggered back and went down to one knee in a controlled fall. I ducked under slashing claws; snapping mandibles cut through the air just over my head.

“Too fat and slow, Ghatslub,” I taunted, trying to stab up into the thing’s bulk—an easy target. I hit but with little strength behind the blow.

“Your flesh will warm and sustain my brood!” it hissed, the legs on one side of its body suddenly folding as the others snapped in.

It rolled and jerked me up and around. I felt a lash against my soft boots and kicked.

Strands of whipping silk, spun round one dexterous claw, circled one foot, missed the other.

I crashed the flat of my sword into Ghatslub’s mandibles; its head jerked back and I threw myself over, not caring if I hit the bridge or the water below. Its legs were too sturdy for me to snap them under my weight; its claws were too sharp and slashed through my light clothes and skin alike.

But I rolled free and sliced down as I came up short at the very edge of the bridge, ankle pressed to the low railing. Sticky silk parted, clinging for a moment to my blade. Ghatslub tugged on the silk but I kept my grasp and it melted away from the sharp, oiled edge.

“Fat and slow, old and weak!” I said with a laugh that sounded more like choking. My throat burned and my heart pounded; fear threatened to break my will but the dead were at my side, giving me strength, helping me get back to my feet. “Go eat the stupid flies and worms of the earth, Ghatslub!”

Shrieking in rage, it rolled to its feet and skittered at me, snapping with speed that something so big should never possess. Mandibles sliced through my sword arm; venom burned, and my hand went numb.

I grabbed my sword with my left hand. Ghatslub was _fast_ but enraged. The old legends were true; taunts stung its fierce spider-pride like arrows. Giant hunter, predator, embodiment of darkness... but stupid.

I had no idea if this thing, this monster, had ever fought a swordsman, but I feinted weakness.

Not quite a feint, of course. But I let the sword hang low and fell to a crouch.

Weak and helpless. I had to be prey, not predator, for just a moment.

Too easy, that role. Ghatslub’s foul breath promised darkness and pain. I thought of its words—flesh, _my_ flesh, sustaining its brood. I thought of the animals I’d seen trapped in cocoons, paralyzed and helpless but horribly aware as they were consumed from within.

_Varda!_

Starlight glittered overhead. The memory of my dead brothers—Arusathri, dead by my hand—drove back Ghatslub’s darkness.

It— _she_ —skittered at me, shrieking in maddened triumph. Venom dripped and claws clicked and she danced forward, confident in her victory.

I cringed down, tightening my grasp on my sword, hiding it in the shadow of my grey cloak. She got close, close enough that I could feel her own shadow engulf me. My eyes burned and my skin tingled painfully.

 _“Prey.”_ She hissed in victory and acid droplets slid onto my hair, burning into my scalp.

With a soft laugh, defying her darkness, I tensed and leaped, the sudden motion startling her. For all her words and cunning, she had an animal’s reflexes; she jerked back in surprise, exposing herself.

This time, I didn’t miss her eye.

 

* * * * *

 

Pain, such as she had never imagined.

This sting went _into_ her eye, _through_ her, right below the half-healed, ichor-clotted score that had been her Prey’s first sting.

_Flee!_

Rage and fear warred but fear—self-preservation—won out. She leaped and spun her strands, going for the dead, web-wrapped trees that were supposed to have been her trap. She _exerted_ , to save herself, and she moved as she had never moved before.

She was filled with hate and hunger and rage, but the pain... the pain was too much.

The natural, nighttime shadows of the forest claimed Ghatslub.

She fled.

To the south.

 

* * * * *

 

Fire engulfed my arm. My sword was gone, somewhere, either on the bridge or over the edge. Stone was hard under my knees. My right hand, numb and weak, barely supported my weight.

I looked down at the left. Ichor, sizzling and steaming, covered it.

Ghatslub’s molten eye, pierced and destroyed.

I turned and forced myself over the rail, landing in the water’s edge with a splash of mud that splattered my face. Good, clean, natural water and mud. Nothing to fear.

Its cool touch soothed the places where ichor and venom had burned me. I submerged, came up for a breath of pure air and mist, then submerged again, letting the river wash away the pain. When I clawed my way up the bank, I felt healed enough to think clearly, free of fear and battle-lust.

I remembered her only then, and cursed into the night. Scrambling to my feet, I went around the entwined trees, back up onto the bridge. My steps wavered, back and forth over the stone, but I made it to where she lay.

She was too pale, her skin grey as ash, but a pulse beat in her neck, slow and strong. I searched her quickly but found no wound, no sign of a bite.

The vapor, then. Ghatslub’s foul breath.

Well enough. She’d survive.

I breathed deep of the clean night air, gathering my strength for a few moments, before I searched for my sword. It was pitted and burned, the sharp edge blackened and corroded. I took it anyway—more evidence of the threat poised to the south—and sheathed it.

I would need both hands free. It seemed my doom to carry a burden with each return to Amon Lanc.

At least this time, it was not death I carried, but life.

 

* * * * *

 

There were questions, of course. In the guard, we called it a debriefing. Throw in the nobles, though, and it quickly turned into an interrogation.

“Why did you take no precautions?” “Why did you bring Letheniel there?” “Did you know this could happen?” “What other proof do you have?”

Outside, the evening breeze whispered through the vines that shaded the plaza during daylight. Night-blooming flowers added a sweet smell to the air, mingling with the oil lamps that servants had hung only a few minutes before.

The interrogation had begun before sunset.

The full chain of command was present, along with three of the King’s advisors, Letheniel’s father, scribes to record the proceedings. Assorted others.

My commander—a rational, level-headed Silvan Elf—had begun by simply asking for a report. I’d done this a thousand times before and gave little thought to the others who listened.

Rather than trying to tell it all at once, with details, I gave a summary of what had happened, knowing that Commander Thamarl would have questions of his own.

Perhaps that had been my mistake.

Before Commander Thamarl could ask more than a couple of questions, the others jumped in, and soon it was like no debriefing I’d ever attended. I saw a look of surprise and helplessness in Thamarl’s eyes as he stepped back from the empty space where I stood. He was not distancing himself from me; I knew that he would stand with me, if - when - these nobles turned from interrogation to accusation. But few were the Silvans who would stand against the nobles when their ire was up.

Apparently saving Letheniel’s life wasn’t good enough for the nobility. I should’ve been able to kill Ghatslub, too.

Not that they believed that Ghatslub had _spoken_ , or even had a name.

“I’ve seen her twice now,” I said, trying—and probably failing—to keep my tone

moderate and respectful. My hands were locked together behind my back, fingers entwined, mostly to keep me from hitting the next soft-skinned noble that challenged my word. I couldn’t hide the tension in my stance, but that could be written off as a reaction to the injuries that hadn’t even begun to heal. “She’s got to be the one directing the others—she called herself ‘broodmother’. She spoke the name ‘Ungol—’”

“Be silent! Do not dare speak that cursed name here!” one of the scholars shouted, his voice as thin and faded as his flesh seemed to be. I could see the light of the Two Trees in his bearing and knew that he was not long for Middle-earth. The call of the West was strong in him.

Fine with me.

“ _Ghatslub_ didn’t hide from the name,” I snapped right back, nearly unclasping my hands.

Even injured, I could break the scholar in half, but I reminded myself not to rush his trip to the Halls of Mandos.

“Again, you name this beast,” he snapped accusingly. Perhaps he felt more bold with his peers at his back; he actually advanced on me, sneering openly. “Do you claim to know it?”

“I said I’ve seen her twice now.” My hands clenched into fists and fell to my sides.

Tingling shot up my right arm; I ignored it.

“Yes. So you say.” He turned and looked at the others. They seemed to be content to let him do the talking, for now. He turned back then, with a dramatic swirl of his robes, and pointed at me. “Once, you came back, the only survivor. Twice, you encountered the beast, at the side of Letheniel, daughter of Barathien. How did you intend this encounter to go, Silvan?” he demanded, his voice rising, ringing as if in anticipated triumph.

Anger flared, touched with only the least thread of anxiety. What did he think he knew? I took a breath and clasped my hands behind my back once more, looking at him as evenly as I could. “What exactly do you mean, honored scholar?” I asked, giving the courteous title a slight, sharp edge.

“I am not here to answer your questions, Silvan.” He gave me a cold smile and took a step towards me. “You, however... The first time you encountered this beast, what happened to your fellow guards, Calaneth? _Who killed Arusathri?_ ”

 

* * * * *

 

So that was what this was about.

Over the tremor of conversation—some confused, some shocked, some agreeing with the scholar’s accusation—I heard Commander Thamarl speak: “Calaneth. Answer the honored scholar’s question.”

Mild as it was, it was an order. I nodded; I’d planned to answer anyway. I’d already given him my full report of the first incident, at least, but that had been in private. Besides, I was happier to address my commanding officer than this puffed-up, self-important Sindarin.

“I did, Commander.”

Now the flurry of conversation redoubled. Thamarl shot a disdainful look at the others and walked forward, his deliberately loud footsteps cutting through the murmur. Slowly, the room came to silence, save for the rustling vines that walled in the trellis. Outside, night was coming.

“Explain the circumstances, Calaneth.”

I nodded again, still speaking to him, though a part of me was disgusted that we had to dance like this for the entertainment of our noble lords. “He was poisoned, Commander, by Ghatslub’s venom. It was... potent.” I faltered for a moment, remembering. One moment, Arusathri had been right in front of me, clinging to my arms for balance, afraid but trusting my strength to help him escape. The next, he was gone, lost to unthinkable agony. Dead in all but fact.

“How did you kill him?”

“One shot, sir, with his bow.”

Gasps at that. What did they think I’d done? More to the point, what did they think they knew?

Thamarl ignored them, as if we were having a normal debriefing at his command office, rather than on this decorated plaza full of our illustrious companions. Softly, he asked the question I knew he would—the only question that really mattered. “Why?”

 _Be at peace, brother._ I took a breath, wanting my voice to be steady. Professional. “To give him a clean death, sir.”

“And then what did you do?”

“My second shot was at Ghatslub, Commander. I hit, but missed her eye. She’s got a thick hide. But it drove her off.”

“But you left him,” the scholar suddenly burst out, stalking to Thamarl’s side. Either he was suicidal or just an idiot.

Thamarl shot him a black look. I suppose I should have let him answer, but I was never any good with protocol. “His last living act was to tell me to bring that _thing_ —Ghatslub’s mate—here, so you could all see the threat on our southern border,” I snapped angrily. “He tried to _run_ it here, even though he was almost dead from his wounds. And while you should be moving against them, you’re sitting here _making accusations!_ ”

“Accusations that you seek to deflect!” the scholar barked, irritated, gesturing Thamarl out of his way. He pointed at me and I locked my hands together to keep from pushing him back.

“A fine tale of Arusathri’s death, but what of Letheniel?”

 

* * * * *

 

That broke even Commander Thamarl’s composure. “Stars above, what do you _think?_ ” he asked, exasperated, turning on him. “Look at him—he’s half dead from his wounds! And you still accuse him of a _conspiracy_ with this beast? If not for him, we would have no idea that these spiders were even there!”

And then everyone had to talk again, some of them rushing forward to confront Thamarl or the scholar, others gathering in knots to chatter and fuss.

I remained silent, listening to them, watching, and finally decided that I wasn’t going to stand against them either. My wounds still ached and I wanted nothing more than another night’s sleep—perhaps a solid week of it, the way I was feeling. Giving a slight bow to Thamarl, I turned and walked to the edge of the room, and sat down in a chair deserted by one of the shouting nobles.

 _That_ got their attention. I settled down comfortably, stretching out my legs, feeling the twinges in my knees and ankles. I couldn’t cross my arms, but I rested them comfortably on the arms of the chair, slouching just enough to take advantage of the cushions. Not quite as good as a bed, but a close second. If the nobles shut up long enough, I could close my eyes and rest here.

It was Letheniel’s father, Barathien, who finally broke from the others and stepped into the open plaza. He was an unlikely ally, but other than the Commander and the other officers, he was my only one.

“Spider-breaker,” Barathien said, giving me the nod that was as close to a bow as any Sindarin would get when dealing with a Silvan soldier. “Allow me to extend the apologies of this council. We gave no consideration to your injuries.”

“Either set,” I said pointedly. “It’s been not even a single day since I saved your daughter’s life, after all. The healer didn’t want me out of bed for at least three days.”

Angry mutters answered me, but it was Barathien who answered them, turning abruptly on his fellows. “Is this how we treat one who risks his life for our safety?” he demanded.

“Do you care nothing for _your_ daughter?” another Sindarin noble countered, giving me what was probably supposed to be a fierce glare. I looked back at him, unimpressed.

Barathien’s glare must have been stronger, or at least more unexpected. As the noble met his eyes, he declared proudly, “Calaneth Spider-breaker is as a son to me. He and my daughter are pledged to wed.”

Everyone looked over in surprise, including me. I’d spoken with her once. Walked with her once. I didn’t even _like_ her. Oh, she was pretty enough to look at—most of the Sindarin were.

But marriage...

As the nobles burst into another flurry of chatter, Commander Thamarl crossed to my side. “Varda’s blessings upon your marriage,” he whispered dryly, looking at me sidelong.

I answered with a curse, staring at the nobles, realizing the stakes had just escalated again. Debriefing to interrogation... and now to this sentencing, as they decided my fate.

I shook my head, feeling my scalp sting as my hair shifted over fresh wounds. I gathered myself to rise, only to be pressed back down into the cushions by Commander Thamarl’s hand on my shoulder. Pain lanced from shoulder to elbow and I growled but sat back at once.

“They’re frightened,” he said, his voice still a whisper, lips barely moving. His hand remained on my shoulder, the touch light now, a show of support. “Twice now, you’ve brought news of an unexpected danger. Rather obviously,” he added with a soft laugh.

I had to catch myself before I could growl again. “Kill the messenger,” I muttered.

Thamarl gave an eloquent, subtle shrug. “It must be something—”

“Calaneth.” Barathien turned back rather extravagantly, giving me a half-bow. “Let us put these accusations to rest, that there be no shadow over the joy you bring to my family.”

I felt a shiver of warning touch my spine. I stood, despite Thamarl’s touch; I managed not to fall only by an act of will. A thousand questions passed through my mind, but I settled on the most innocuous and noncommittal: “How?”

“When you have healed, you will prove you meant no harm to my daughter, for though you have walked with her only this once, surely you can only agree that she is truly blessed by Elbereth’s grace.” He reached out and took hold of my hand. Turned away, missing my growl of warning as he raised our joined hands in a showy display to the others. “Let all of you bear witness this day that at the next turn of the moon, when its light shines down upon us all, Letheniel, my most precious daughter, will wed Calaneth. Let it be known that an ill word spoken against him is one spoken against me as well.”

I felt the knife poised a hairsbreadth from my throat. Accept and I would be under Barathien’s protection. Refuse and it would be obvious—at least to the more bloodthirsty nobles—that I’d led the idiot girl to the forest as bait.

I remembered the shadows of the entwined trees. The way I’d vanished into the darkness, leaving her to face the threat—the unknown, unplanned threat that I’d sensed by some warrior’s instinct.

I _had_ used her as bait. Only now, I was the one who was trapped.

 

* * * * *

 

The next dawn, we exchanged silver rings.

Three weeks later, we traded silver for gold and spoke our pledge beneath the moon’s full light.

Barathien spent lavishly, even sending traders to the Men for wine and the bounty of the Long Lake. At Amon Lanc, crustaceans were a rare delicacy. If for nothing else, our wedding was well-attended for that.

In all those three weeks, I had spoken perhaps ten words to Letheniel, daughter of Barathien.

My wife.

We wore formal robes, our hair hanging long and straight over our shoulders, our only adornments the rings that marked our pledge. Letheniel looked ethereal and pale, still subdued by Ghatslub’s attack.

My hand itched for my sword.

I had little wealth, in truth. I lived and ate in the barracks. What money I had, I spent on my gear. None of which would suit my noble-blooded wife.

The feast went until dawn rose over Amon Lanc. With solemn ceremony, we were escorted to Barathien’s manse, where he had set aside a high tower for our use, until I could provide a suitable home for my wife.

My wife. Even now, on the morning after my wedding, the words felt hollow. Empty.

Not to say that I felt no interest. She was beautiful and alluring and apparently very much mine, by her father’s decree and by her own pledge. But whatever interest I felt was a cold, distant thing.

I tried to push it out of my mind as her father escorted us to the tower. At the door, he embraced us formally, first his daughter, pausing to whisper in her ear, and then me. To me, he said softly, “Treasure her as I do, my son. All my hope, I give to you.”

It was clear by now that he expected _something_ from me, though I had never established precisely what. A small part of me even imagined that he’d somehow planned all of this, but that was absurd. He was a noble, politically wise and pragmatic, but he would not sacrifice the lives of seven of the King’s guard—Silvan or Sindarin—for political gain.

But he would take advantage of the situation, if presented to him.

I went into the tower chamber and crossed to the window, looking out at the steel-grey morning as if there were answers out there. Behind me, I heard the door close with a gentle click under my wife’s hand.

I had courted. I had felt attraction, interest, but never love.

 _Elbereth forgive me,_ I thought, turning away from the window. My wife stood before the door, looking at me, her expression distant. Haunted.

I felt no love for her.

 

* * * * *

 

Servants brought food. Prepared baths. My clothing—all of it, not just my wedding finery—had been carefully cleaned. I couldn’t imagine the last time the servants had handled the oil-stained padding worn under armor, the undyed blankets used by soldiers in the fields, any of the things that had defined my life for so long.

I dressed in the room below the bedchamber where my wife lay, sleeping. Maybe pretending. Avoiding me as I was avoiding her.

Padding. Armor. They’d touched the edges of the metal with scented oil; irritation cut through the tension that held me. I’d have to wash that off. Foolish nobles. It was as if they didn’t live in _reality_ but in some dream world that conformed to their expectations, their orders.

The irritation helped. It was not the bleak, consuming rage that gave me the strength to stand against Ghatslub and her brood, but it was enough to make my steps certain and swift.

Caught by surprise, servants scurried to follow me down the spiral stairs; to their consternation, I carried my own possessions, rather than leaving that to them.

“Sir?” That was all that one of them dared to ask when he saw me find my pack and cloak—a replacement for the torn grey half-cloak I’d worn three weeks earlier, in another life.

I said nothing. Unfolded my blanket, rolled it into a tight cylinder, strapped it to the bottom of my pack. Did the same with my clothing; I hesitated over the finery, but finally shoved it into the pack. It had been a gift. If nothing else, I could sell it for the gold thread embroidered at cuffs and collar.

At the alcove by the entrance, I sat down to pull on my boots. The servants stood apart from me, as if frightened, whispering among themselves. But it wasn’t until I rose to retrieve my weapons that one finally asked, “Are you intending to leave, sir?”

I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak. I wrapped my long belt around my waist, buckled it, settled my sword at my left hip, dagger at my right.

“When shall I tell the lady to expect your return, sir?”

I picked up the bow. Arusathri’s bow. _Guide my hand, brother._

I strapped the quiver across my back. Slid the unstrung bow into its case.

“Sir?”

I picked up my shield from where it hung in a place of honor. I lengthened the straps and pulled it over my back, settling it to hang loose over everything else. The burden was awkward but familiar; I could run for hours without noticing this slight weight. A couple of quick pulls and I could dislodge everything but the bow and quiver from my back.

“Sir—”

The deferential tone, coming from a Silvan, turned irritation into anger. I turned on him, shrugging everything into place with a quick snap of my shoulders. “I am not,” I said, loudly enough to silence them all.

It was a long, quiet moment before he said, “Sir. I do not—”

I picked up my gloves from the small table beneath where my shield had hung. The gold ring glittered on my hand. I dropped the gloves.

I slid the ring off my finger.

The servants stirred.

“She is free,” I said softly, looking at the ring. “I release her from her vows. They should never have been spoken.”

I set the ring down on the table, absurdly proud that my hand did not shake.

Then, to the stunned silence of the servants, I picked up my gloves and left.


End file.
